One Day, Page 29

  ‘Who was Mr Godalming?’

  ‘Another time. Left, right?’

  ‘Left.’

  ‘Anyway, if I ever get really desperate, there’s always your offer to fall back on.’

  Dexter stopped walking. ‘What offer?’

  ‘Do you remember you used to say if I was still single when I got to forty you’d marry me?’

  ‘Did I say that?’ He winced. ‘Bit patronising.’

  ‘I thought so at the time. But don’t worry, I don’t think it’s legally binding or anything, I’m not going to hold you to it. Besides, there’s still seven years to go. Plenty of time . . .’ She began walking again, but Dexter stood still behind her, rubbing his head like a boy who is about to reveal that he’s broken the best vase.

  ‘I’m afraid I’m sort of going to have to withdraw the offer anyway.’

  She stopped and turned.

  ‘Oh really? Why’s that?’ she said, but a part of her knew already.

  ‘I’m engaged.’

  Emma blinked once, very slowly.

  ‘Engaged to what?’

  ‘To be married. To Sylvie.’

  A moment passed, perhaps half a second when their faces said what they felt, and then Emma was smiling, laughing, her arms around his neck. ‘Oh, Dexter. That’s amazing! Congratulations!’ and she went to kiss his cheek just as he turned his head, their mouths glancing for a moment so that they tasted the champagne on each other’s lips.

  ‘You’re pleased?’

  ‘Pleased? I’m destroyed! But really, seriously, that’s fantastic news.’

  ‘You think so?’

  ‘More than fantastic, it’s, it’s . . . rad! It’s rad and sweet. It’s old skool!’

  He stepped back from her and searched inside his jacket. ‘In fact, that’s why I dragged you in here. I wanted to give you this in person—’

  A thick envelope of heavy lilac paper. Emma took it gingerly, and peered inside. The envelope was quilted with tissue paper and the invitation itself had hand-torn edges and seemed to be made of some sort of papyrus or parchment. ‘Now that—’ Emma balanced it like a table on her upturned fingertips ‘—that is what I call a wedding invitation.’

  ‘Isn’t it?’

  ‘That is some elaborate stationery.’

  ‘Eight quid each.’

  ‘That’s more than my car.’

  ‘Smell it, go on . . .’

  ‘Smell it?’ Warily, she held it to her nose. ‘It’s scented! Your wedding invitations are scented?’

  ‘It’s meant to be lavender.’

  ‘No, Dex – it’s money. It smells of money.’ Carefully, she opened the card, and he watched her as she read, remembering the way she used her fingertips to brush her fringe across her forehead. ‘“Mr and Mrs Lionel Cope invite you to the marriage of their daughter Sylvie to Mr Dexter Mayhew—” I can’t believe I’m actually seeing this in print. Saturday, September 14th. Hang on, that’s only . . .’

  ‘Seven weeks away . . .’ and he kept watching her face, that fantastic face to see how it might change when he told her.

  ‘Seven weeks? I thought these things were years in the making?’

  ‘Well they are usually, but I think this is what they call a shotgun wedding . . .’

  Emma frowned, not quite there yet.

  ‘For three hundred and fifty guests. With Ceilidh.’

  ‘You mean? . . .’

  ‘Sylvie’s sort of pregnant. Well not sort of. She is. Pregnant. Actually pregnant. With a baby.’

  ‘Oh, Dexter!’ Once again, her face was against his. ‘Do you know the father? I’m kidding! Congratulations, Dex. God, aren’t you meant to space your bombshells out a bit, not just drop them all at once?’ She held his face in both hands, looked at it. ‘You’re getting married?—’

  ‘Yes!’

  ‘—and you’re going to be a father?’

  ‘I know! Fuck me – a father!’

  ‘Is that allowed? I mean will they let you?’

  ‘Apparently.’

  ‘Don’t suppose you’ve still got that cigarette, have you?’ He reached into his pocket for her. ‘How’s Sylvie about it?’

  ‘She’s delighted! I mean she’s worried that it’ll make her look fat.’

  ‘Well I suppose that is a possibility . . .’

  He lit her cigarette. ‘. . . but she wants to get on with it, get married, have kids, make a start. She doesn’t want to end up mid-thirties and all alone—’

  ‘Like ME!!!’

  ‘Exactly, she doesn’t want to end up like you!’ He took her hand. ‘That’s not what I meant, of course.’

  ‘I know. I’m kidding. Dexter, congratulations.’

  ‘Thank you. Thank you.’ A momentary pause. ‘Let me have a go on that, will you?’ he said as he took the last cigarette from her mouth, placing it between his own lips. ‘Here, look at this . . .’ From his wallet, he unfolded a square of smudgy paper, and held it down to the sodium light. ‘It’s the twelve-week scan. Isn’t that incredible?’

  Emma took the scrap of paper and peered at it dutifully. The beauty of the ultrasound scan is something that only parents can appreciate, but Emma had seen these things before and knew what was required of her. ‘Beautiful,’ she sighed, though in truth it could have been a Polaroid of the inside of his pocket.

  ‘See – that’s its spine.’

  ‘Great spine.’

  ‘You can even make out the tiny little fingers.’

  ‘Awww. Boy or girl?’

  ‘Girl, I hope. Or boy. Don’t care. But you think it’s a good thing?’

  ‘Absolutely. I think it’s wonderful. Fucking hell, Dexter, I turn my back for one minute . . .!’

  She hugged him once again, her arms high round his neck. She felt drunk, full of affection and a certain sadness too, as if something was coming to an end. She wanted to say something along these lines, but thought it best to do this through a joke. ‘Of course you’ve just destroyed any chance I had of future happiness, but I’m delighted for you, really.’

  He twisted his head to look at her, and suddenly something was moving between them, something alive and vibrating in his chest.

  Emma placed her hand there. ‘Is that your heart?’

  ‘It’s my mobile.’

  She stepped back and allowed him to retrieve his phone from his inside pocket. Glancing at the display, he gave his head a little sobering shake, and guiltily handed Emma the cigarette, as if it were a smoking gun. Quickly he recited, ‘Don’t sound drunk don’t sound drunk,’ assumed a tele-sales smile and answered.

  ‘Hello, my love!’

  Emma could hear Sylvie through the receiver. ‘Where are you?’

  ‘I’ve sort of got lost.’

  ‘Lost? How can you get lost?’

  ‘Well, I’m in a maze, so—’

  ‘A maze? What are you doing in a maze?’

  ‘Just . . . you know . . . hanging out. We thought it would be fun.’

  ‘Well as long as you’re having fun, Dex. I’m stuck here listening to some old dear bang on about New Zealand . . .’

  ‘I know, and I’ve been trying to get out for ages, it’s just, well you know – it’s like a maze in here!’ He giggled, but there was silence from the phone. ‘Hello? Are you still there? Can you hear me?’

  ‘Are you with anyone, Dexter?’ said Sylvie, her voice low.

  He glanced at Emma, still pretending to be captivated by the ultrasound scan. He thought for a moment, then turned his back to her and lied. ‘Actually there’s a whole gang of us in here. We’re going to give it another fifteen minutes, then we’re going to dig a tunnel, and if that doesn’t work we’re going to eat someone.’

  ‘Thank God, here’s Callum. I’m going to talk to Callum. Hurry up, will you?’

  ‘Okay. I’m on my way. Bye, darling, bye!’ He hung up. ‘Did I sound drunk then?’

  ‘Not in the least.’

  ‘We’ve got to get out of here right now.’

&n
bsp; ‘Fine by me.’ She looked in both directions, hopeless. ‘We should have left a trail of breadcrumbs.’ As if in answer, there was a hum, a click, and each of the lights that illuminated the maze clicked off one by one, plunging them into darkness.

  ‘That’s handy,’ said Dexter. They stood still for a moment as their eyes adjusted to the gloom. The band were playing ‘It’s Raining Men’, and they listened hard to the muffled sound as if it held a clue to their whereabouts.

  ‘We should get back,’ said Emma. ‘Before it starts raining men.’

  ‘Good idea.’

  ‘There’s a trick, isn’t there?’ said Emma. ‘As I remember it, you put your left hand on the wall, and as long as you don’t let go, you get out eventually.’

  ‘Then let’s do it!’ He poured the last two glasses from the champagne bottle and placed the empty bottle on the grass. Emma removed her heels, placed her fingertips on the hedge and, a little gingerly at first, they began to walk along the dim corridor of leaves.

  ‘So you’ll come? To my wedding.’

  ‘Of course I will. I can’t promise not to disrupt the service, mind.’

  ‘It should have been me!’ They both smiled in the darkness and walked a little further.

  ‘As a matter of fact, I was going to ask you a favour.’

  ‘Please, please, don’t ask me to be the Best Man, Dex.’

  ‘It’s not that, it’s just I’ve been trying to write a speech for ages now, and I was wondering if you might give me a hand?’

  ‘No!’ laughed Emma.

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘I just think it’ll carry less emotional weight if it’s written by me. Just write what you honestly feel.’

  ‘Well I don’t know if that’s such a good idea. “I’d like to thank the caterers, and by the way I’m scared shitless.”’ He squinted into the darkness. ‘Are you sure this is working? It feels like we’re going further in.’

  ‘Trust me.’

  ‘Anyway, I don’t want you to write the whole thing, just give it a polish . . .’

  ‘Sorry, you’re on your own there.’ They came to a halt at a three-way junction.

  ‘We’ve definitely been here before.’

  ‘Just trust me. We keep going.’

  They walked on in silence. Nearby the band had segued into Prince’s ‘1999’, to cheers from the guests. ‘When I first heard this song,’ said Emma, ‘I thought it was science-fiction. 1999. Hover cars and food in pill form and holidays on the moon. Now it’s here and I’m still driving a Fiat bloody Panda. Nothing’s changed.’

  ‘’Cept I’m a family man now.’

  ‘A family man. Good God, aren’t you scared?’

  ‘Sometimes. But then you look at some of the idiots who manage to raise kids. I keep telling myself, if Miffy Buchanan can do it, how hard can it be?’

  ‘You can’t take babies to cocktail bars, you know. They get funny about that kind of thing.’

  ‘S’okay. I’m going to learn to love staying in.’

  ‘But you’re happy?’

  ‘Yeah? I think I am. Are you?’

  ‘Happier. Happyish.’

  ‘Happyish. Well, happyish isn’t so bad.’

  ‘It’s the most we can hope for.’ The fingertips of her left hand passed across the surface of a statute that seemed familiar, and now Emma knew exactly where they were. Turning right, and then left would bring them out into the rose garden again, back into the party, back to his fiancée and their friends, and there would be no more time to talk. She suddenly felt a startling sadness, so stopped for a moment, turned and took both of Dexter’s hands in her own.

  ‘Can I say something? Before we go back to the party?’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘I’m a little drunk.’

  ‘Me too. That’s okay.’

  ‘Just . . . I missed you, you know.’

  ‘I missed you too.’

  ‘But so, so much, Dexter. There were so many things I wanted to talk to you about, and you weren’t there—’

  ‘Same here.’

  ‘And I feel a little guilty, sort of running away like that.’

  ‘Did you? I didn’t blame you. There were times when I was being a little . . . obnoxious.’

  ‘More than a little, you were bloody awful—’

  ‘I know—’

  ‘Selfish, and stuck-up and boring actually—’

  ‘Yes, you’ve made that point—’

  ‘But even so. I should have stuck it out a bit, what with your mum and everything—’

  ‘That’s no excuse though.’

  ‘Well, no, but it was bound to give you a knock.’

  ‘I’ve still got that letter you wrote. It’s a very beautiful letter, I appreciated it.’

  ‘But still, I should have tried harder to get in touch. You’re meant to stick by your friends aren’t you? Take the blow.’

  ‘I don’t blame you—’

  ‘But even so.’ To her embarrassment, she found that there were tears in her eyes.

  ‘Hey, hey, what’s up, Em?’

  ‘I’m sorry, drunk too much is all . . .’

  ‘Come here.’ He put his arms around her, his face against the bare skin of her neck, smelling shampoo and damp silk, and she breathed into his neck, his aftershave and sweat and alcohol, the smell of his suit, and they stood like this for a while until she caught her breath and spoke.

  ‘I tell you what it is. It’s . . . when I didn’t see you, I thought about you every day, I mean every day in some way or another—’

  ‘Same here—’

  ‘—even if it was just “I wish Dexter could see this” or “where’s Dexter now?” or “Christ, that Dexter, what an idiot”, you know what I mean, and seeing you today, well, I thought I’d got you back – my best friend. And now all this, the wedding, the baby – I’m so, so happy for you, Dex. But it feels like I’ve lost you again.’

  ‘Lost – how?’

  ‘You know what happens, you have a family, your responsibilities change, you lose touch with people—’

  ‘Not necessarily—’

  ‘No really, it happens all the time, I know it. You’ll have different priorities, and all these new friends, nice young couples that you met at ante-natal classes who’ll have babies too and understand, or you’ll be too tired because you’ve been up all night—’

  ‘Actually, we’re going to have one of those babies that aren’t too much trouble. Just leave them in a room apparently. With a tin opener, a little gas stove.’ He could feel her laughter against his chest, and at that moment he thought that there was no better feeling than making Emma Morley laugh. ‘It won’t be like that, I promise.’

  ‘Do you?’

  ‘Absolutely.’

  She pulled away to look at him. ‘You swear? No more disappearing?’

  ‘I won’t if you won’t.’

  Their lips touched now, mouths pursed tight, their eyes open, both of them stock still. The moment held, a kind of glorious confusion.

  ‘What’s the time?’ said Emma, twisting her face away in panic.

  Dexter tugged his sleeve and looked at his watch. ‘Just coming up to midnight.’

  ‘Well! We should go.’

  They walked on in silence, unsure about what had happened and what would happen next. Two more turnings brought them once again to the exit of the maze, and back to the party. Emma was about to open the heavy oak door when he took her hand.

  ‘Em?’

  ‘Dex?’

  He wanted to take hold of her hand and walk back into the maze. He would turn his phone off, and they would just stay in there until the party was over, get lost and talk about all that had happened.

  ‘Friends again?’ he said eventually.

  ‘Friends again.’ She let go of his hand. ‘Now, let’s go and find your fiancée. I want to congratulate her.’

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Fathering

  SATURDAY 15 JULY 2000

  Richmond, Sur
rey

  Jasmine Alison Viola Mayhew.

  She was born in the late evening of the third day of the new Millennium, and so would always be as old as the century. A neat but healthy 6lbs 6ozs, and to Dexter’s mind, inexpressibly beautiful, he knew that he would sacrifice his life for her, while at the same time feeling fairly confident that the situation was unlikely to arise.

  That night, sitting in the low-slung vinyl hospital chair, clutching the tiny, crimson-faced bundle, Dexter Mayhew made a solemn resolution. He resolved to do the right thing from now on. A few biological and sexual imperatives aside, all his words and actions would now be fit for his daughter’s ears and eyes. Life would be lived as if under Jasmine’s constant scrutiny. He would never do anything that might cause her pain or anxiety or embarrassment and there would be nothing, absolutely nothing in his life to be ashamed of anymore.

  This solemn resolution held for approximately ninety-five minutes. As he sat in a toilet cubicle, attempting to exhale cigarette smoke into an empty Evian bottle, a little must have escaped and set off the detector, waking his exhausted wife and daughter from their much-needed sleep and as he was escorted from the cubicle, still clutching the screw-top bottle of yellow grey smoke, the look in his wife’s tired, narrowed eyes said it all: Dexter Mayhew was simply not up to it.

  The growing antagonism between them was exacerbated by the fact that, as the new century began, he found himself without a job, or even the prospect of a job. The broadcast slot for Sport Xtreme had crept inexorably towards dawn, until it became clear that no-one, not even BMX riders, could stay up that late on a weeknight, no matter how rad, sweet or old skool the moves. The series limped to an end and Paternity Leave shaded into the less fashionable state of unemployment.

  A temporary distraction was provided by moving house. After much resistance the bachelor flat in Belsize Park was rented out for a huge monthly sum, and exchanged for a neat terraced house in Richmond with, they told him, bags of potential. Dexter protested that he was too young to move to Surrey, by about thirty-five years, but there was no arguing with the quality of life, the good schools, the transport links, the deer roaming in the Park. It was close to her parents, the Twins lived nearby, so Surrey won out and in May they had begun the endless, bottomlessly expensive task of sanding every available wooden surface and knocking through every non-supporting wall. The Mazda sports car went too, sacrificed for a secondhand people carrier that smelt indelibly of the previous family’s communal vomit.